


currant

by hecleretical



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, i write about character dynamics no one thinks about, mutual unrequited pining or something, pre-canon even by pre-canon standards, sickfic kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:55:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22868971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hecleretical/pseuds/hecleretical
Summary: something comes out when emperor murr gets drunk.
Relationships: Gol Golathanian/Soliam Murr
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	currant

At some point during the second bottle of wine you are dimly aware of being carried to bed. Warm, strong arms– Golathanian, it must be; no one else smells this good. When you are dizzy and nauseous and about to be sick and all you want is to bury your face in his shoulder, warm, warm and solid. You pull yourself closer and his arms tighten slightly around you in reassurance.

The sick feeling passes. You breathe in, keep your eyes squeezed shut. Let the smell of him ground you– it’s not that men at court smell objectionable it’s that he’s always _delicious_ , good enough to taste. It’s never too much, never lingers unpleasantly where he’s been; you’ve had men who gave you headaches and strange dreams when you embraced them but he is just, just enough that when he’s standing close he can drive you oh so slightly to distraction.

You nuzzle gently at his neck and there’s a hitch to his breath. Just can’t get as close as you want to be, can you, even with arms around him all tucked up against his chest. Your lips rest against the place where you can feel his pulse. He smells of ginger and something more, juicy and spiced. Very rich. Currant? And underneath that soft clean skin, just a whiff of something that must be what he smells like. You could taste it now, under your lips and tongue. A scrape of teeth.

You’re so drunk.

He just smells too good, you try to say.

He murmurs something you don’t catch, except for “my liege.”

Can you taste?

Something odd and strained in his voice. “My liege?”

“I want to kiss your neck,” you say, careful, struggling not to slur. To part of you it’s important to ask. Part of you says if you could move, you’d be kissing him already.

The barest little pause is all you need to know. He murmurs, “I think you’ve had too much, my liege,” and you sigh and press your face tearfully against his shoulder.

Maybe, you’re not sure if you say.

You don’t remember anything more until you are falling asleep in bed, careful hands tucking you into the covers. Someone strokes your hair, but there is no way to tell if it’s real, if you just want it to happen, like you want the weight of his body pressing you into the bed– and you sigh, and turn your face into the pillow, and sink down into sleep.


End file.
